Classic Poem

The song of the Spirit of Chaos is heard on high above the aged
Solar Universe.

The Sun hangs in the black wastes below. His dazzling beams are
shorn away. He glows, but dimly, like an ember, with a red and
smouldering heat.

In their concentric rounds lie poised the planets, like weary-winged
cup-bearers, circling about their sleepless lord.

His fire, dull with death, wavers across their dim faces, even unto
dusky Uranus and lowering Neptune in the cold, outermost rings.

In the dark, all-surrounding void new constellations gleam on the
thrones of the heavens. The old are changed, deposed or dead.

Their figures, unfixed in the abyss, have been shifted like errant
sands of Earth.

The spirit of Chaos, from her uncharted tracts, summons her
ministrant powers of Death and Change. She beholds them blight
the worlds. Her presence enfolds destroyers and destroyed as with
a cloak.

The dusks and damps of dissolution spread out their lethal and
invisible wings.

The voice of the Spirit, like spheral music, flows out of the
darkness.

The orbs listen and are filled with a miraculous consciousness
and the soft lassitude of Death.